


I Hope When You See Me I'm Not See Through

by SleipnirLokison



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:36:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleipnirLokison/pseuds/SleipnirLokison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall Sherlock went in search of Moriarty's web to dismantle it. His return to London isn't quite under the circumstances he imagined they would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hope When You See Me I'm Not See Through

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Sherlock Mini Bang Challenge. My wonderful partner was Ensign-CannonFodder, I couldn't have asked for a better partner. I had a great time, thanks Ensign. You held this project together.
> 
> We decided we would use the first teaser trailer, http://youtu.be/llGXWICGsD4, as our basis and worked from that. I got a bit carried away with the ending though.
> 
> Once again title is from a Fall Out Boy song. I took the lyric from their song The Mighty Fall, I thought it was quite apt.

The room was stuffy and claustrophobic around Sherlock. He was sitting cross legged on the crumpled bed in his sub standard hotel room. If it was possible to call the decrepit old building a hotel. The wallpaper was drooping from the walls and the roof had water stained patches spreading across it. In front of Sherlock there were various photographs spread out on the dull discoloured sheets. His eyes scanned the photographs in front of him, they were of John doing his shopping, sitting on a battered old sofa, in a flat that was distinctly not 221B, and of him holding a woman’s hand, she was around Sherlock’s age, shorter than John, blonde and looked at John adoringly in the photographs. John, in all of the photographs, clearly did not know they were being taken. He looked older now, hair gone greyer around the temples and his face more haggard looking than Sherlock had ever seen him. The moustache was a bit of a surprise, John was meticulous about his facial hair. He never had any full stop. Sherlock shuffled the pictures around, turning them over, gleaning every piece of information about them that he could. On the back of one of the photographs written in scratchy handwriting using a cheap bookies pen was a note.

**_We have unfinished business, Mr. Holmes. Either you pay me a visit or I pay Johnny one. SM_ **

Sherlock’s heart constricted in his chest, a pain that he knew was all in his mind. Knowing this didn’t do anything to lessen that pain. After everything he had gone through to save John’s life and now it was being threatened by one of Moriarty’s slimy followers. Sherlock grabbed his phone from the night stand and rang Mycroft.

The line made the usual crackling noise of making an overseas phone call. ‘Sherlock, I told you only to use this line in emergencies,’ was the first thing that Mycroft said upon answering on the fourth ring.

‘This is an emergency, I need to get back to London. Now,’ Sherlock snapped.

‘Is that so? Why, may I enquire do you need to return so urgently?’  Sighed Mycroft

‘No, you may not enquire.’With that Sherlock hung up the phone before his brother could respond.

Minutes later Sherlock’s phone beeped with a message.

**_Flight from Montpellier Airport to Heathrow booked for tomorrow at 7am under the name Arthur Curie. MH_ **

**_Ticket and passport to be collected at 5.30am at the Café Noir at arrivals. MH_ **

~*~

After Sherlock collected his fake passport and ticket he bought a mug of tea and sat in the departure lounge. The tea was disgusting, he missed Baker Street and John bustling around the kitchen making infinite cups of tea. Proper tea, not the crime against what they labelled ‘British Breakfast tea’ that they served in the airport.

It had been two years since he faked his death. Two long years of scouring the world to destroy Moriartiy’s web. And now he was about to lose everything because of one strand that escaped before he could snuff it out. He could not let that happen. The thought of losing John made his chest twist painfully, he knew Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were safe, he had destroyed both of the assassins assigned to them relatively early on.

_‘Vol 197 à Heathrow via Paris embarquement dans les dix minutes, tous les passagers pourrait procéder à la porte 2 immédiatement, s'il vous plait._

_Flight 197 to Heathrow via Paris boarding in ten minutes, could all passengers proceed to gate 2 immediately, please.’_

Sherlock’s head snapped to attention immediately, he did not realise how long he had been sitting there just thinking. The amount of time he spent lost in his own head had practically stopped since the fall. He couldn’t have his guard down when at any moment there was the chance that he could get shot. What he had been doing to dismantle the web had been extremely dangerous and yet he couldn’t bring himself to care, it was the price he had to pay to keep his friends safe. Nothing was worth losing the people that meant the most to him, they were few and far apart but when he cared for someone he would, quite literally, give his life for theirs.

Sherlock grabbed his only luggage, a shoulder bag, and swung it up onto his shoulder and headed towards gate two.

~*~

An overload of data was coalescing in Sherlock’s mind the minute he sat in his seat on the plane. All of his senses were being assaulted by the multitude of data that was hurtling at him.  The man next to him, he deduced, was a cancer survivor with three small children, two boys and one girl, he had been in France visiting his father, he also had a miniature car collection. The woman in front of Sherlock was a serial adulterer, divorced twice and her first husband died of a horse riding accident, she was well educated possibly Oxford or Cambridge and was an office temp. All of this information was distracting Sherlock from what was truly important, what was he going to do once he got back to London and how was he going to annul SM’s mission.

Before the air hostesses called for passengers to turn all mobiles off Sherlock sent off a text. His dexterous fingers flying over the keys as he typed.

**_Need information on a man mid 30’s initials SM, gambler, possibly ex military or police, dishonourable discharge, possible previous convictions, employee of Moriarty. Need all information possible on landing. SH_ **

His phone beeped almost immediately after he sent the message.

**_Have my best people on it. MH_ **

Good, Sherlock thought. His brother might actually be useful at last to him. Over the past two years Mycroft’s involvement started and finished with supplying Sherlock with money to get by.

A slender blonde hostess gave him a fake smile and said, ‘Sir, please turn all mobile devices off until after the takeoff, when you can turn them onto flight mode.’ Sherlock gave her a steely gazed stare before turning his phone off and putting it in his trouser pocket.

~*~

Most of the flight Sherlock spent with his eyes shut tight against the sun light streaming in through the airplane window and his mind shuffling through his mind palace to get as much data as he could from what he already knew about the situation he had at hand. This SM was clearly an employee of Moriarty’s, the final piece of hay in the bale that he was burning piece by piece to find his way to the needle in the centre that was his freedom from all ties to Moriarty. SM was a marksman, maybe not specifically trained as a sniper but with a good enough shot to be put in charge of his best friend’s assassination. He would have some form of trap set for Sherlock once he returned to London, Sherlock just wasn’t sure what sort of trap.

~*~

When the plane touched down in Heathrow Sherlock let out a breath that he’d unknowingly been holding for the past two years. His shoulders relaxed minutely the tension he’d been holding in them somewhat dissipating, the familiarity of everything around him easing his mind. He knew that his greatest challenge still lay ahead but at least he had a familiar setting and the resources to make it somewhat easier.

Mycroft apparently hadn’t been idle during his flight and had sent him the requested information.

**_SM is Sebastian Moran, dishonourably discharged from the army seven years ago, sniper. Has been in the employment of Moriarty for the last three years, has a severe gambling problem._ **

Well at least that narrowed down the suspects.

~*~

Mycroft was the first person Sherlock went to visit when he returned. There was still some tension between the two but Sherlock knew now more than ever that he had to keep those that meant the most to him close and appreciate them whilst he still had the chance. And even though he would never admit this to anyone he knew his brother cared for him, in whatever creepy capacity that came in, he was not going to take any of it for granted anymore.

When he walked into the office, Mycroft was seated behind his desk reading through reports. When Mycroft peered up at him he had a completely blank expression on his face. He got up and walked over to Sherlock looking him up and down in one sweep of a gaze, Sherlock returned the gesture. He looked more harrowed and had lost a stone since before the fall, but Sherlock was not going to point that out now.

‘Sherlock, I would have thought John would be the first person you visited?’ Mycroft asked, a bit perplexed.

Sherlock gave him a withering look, ‘I need all the files you have on Moran. ‘ He handed a brown paper envelope over to Mycroft who took it.

Mycroft walked around his desk and sat down before carefully taking the pieces of paper from the envelope and spreading them on his desk. He picked up the each photograph delicately by the corners turning them over to see the backs. The photograph with the note on the back caught his attention, obviously. He stared intently at it for a few moments before placing it back on the desk and looking up at Sherlock.

Immediately Sherlock set out his demands, ‘I want you to get the photographs processed for fingerprints, hairs, anything that will help me track down Moran.’ And with that he turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the office.

~*~

St Barts towered up above him as he got out of the cab. He looked up to where he had stood on the day of his fall, the London sky was overcast and shed a dull grey shadow over the city. The roof was where he had looked down on John, telling him that everything he had known about Sherlock was fake and that he had lied to him.  Dragging his eyes away from the rooftop Sherlock set off towards the back entrance into Barts. Most of the staff would recognise him if he just strut through the halls like he hadn’t died two years ago. The less people that saw him the better, there was only one person in Barts that he wanted to see.

~*~

 

~*~

The morgue was in the basement of the hospital, Sherlock walked down the familiar corridor towards where Molly worked. There was no one in the morgue, Sherlock took in the familiar setting of where he used to spend most of his days. Nothing had changed. Molly wasn’t there though. He went to the small locker room next to the morgue, Molly was standing in front of her locker when he arrived soundlessly at the door. The room was small and cramped, a row of lockers lined the wall parallel to the door and the wall to the right. As Molly opened her locker door Sherlock stepped further into the room. Molly saw his reflection in the mirror on the inside of the locker door and let out a startled squawk. She whirled around to stare at Sherlock and visibly twitched with the effort not to hug him.

‘You’re back,’ she said, ‘I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.’ She made that face she makes when she’s said something that didn’t make much sense, ‘Two years isn’t short but...’ She stammered on and Sherlock could see her getting flustered.

‘It’s fine, Molly,’ he said as reassuringly as he could. ‘I hadn’t anticipated being back this soon either. Something has come up. I am extremely grateful for everything you’ve done for me,’ Sherlock said, his voice was laden in as much sincerity as he could manage. Molly had helped more than anyone else in keeping his friends alive. Moriarty had overlooked her importance, he had thought that she had meant nothing to Sherlock. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Before John she had been the only person who had not thought of Sherlock as a freak or someone that they could use for his intelligence. But he had taken advantage of her, he knew she had had feelings for him and he had blatantly manipulated those feelings to his own gain.

He could no longer see that longing look she used to give him when she looked at him. It was replaced with a fond friendly look, she still fumbled over her words, but that was more to do with the shock at seeing him again after two years rather than anything else.

Being her usual polite self Molly had asked him if he would like her to bring him coffee or tea, he graciously declined telling her he had to visit a few more people.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you’re back. Say hi to John for me, I’ve tried to avoid everyone in case I gave you away.’ She looked at her shoes as she said this, finally looking up with a sad look in her eyes.

Sherlock schooled his features at the mention of John and replied with a simple, ‘Thank you, I’ll make sure to pass on the sentiment.’

He turned and walked towards the doors, shooting a, ‘See you soon, Molly,’ over his shoulder as he departed.

~*~

 

~*~

In Sherlock’s pocket his phone beeped with a new message, he fished out the device.

**_You’re being followed. MH_ **

Sure enough when Sherlock looked at the glass windows across the street he could see a figure skulking about a few meters behind, the person was ducking in and out of alleys as he went. Sherlock decided it was time to lose his unwanted audience, he took various obscure alleys and used the roofs of houses and apartments he could climb over.

When he eventually shook the person tailing him he rounded towards Baker Street, he did not chance going past Speedy’s, instead he went behind the apartments hopping over fences and walls that separated the small garden plots behind the buildings.

Sherlock picked the backdoor lock into Baker Street with as much finesse and making as little noise as possible, when the tumbler in the lock finally clicked open he slowly pusher the door open. He had no idea how Mrs Hudson would react to him not being dead. So far he’d only revealed himself to people who knew that his death was in fact fake, the reaction of people who still believed him to be dead was completely unprecedented as this point.

Slowly Sherlock mad his way over to the back door into Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, the low light of the hall was casting odd shadows around him. From the other side of the door he could see the light on in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen and could hear the clink of pots and cutlery. As he turned the knob he took a deep breath before he pushed open the door.

Mrs Hudson was in front of her sink when the door opened, she turned when Sherlock entered through the door. Her face was mottled in fear when her eyes landed on Sherlock’s figure. Pot and dish cloth in hand, she let out a blood curdling scream that rattled the window panes. Sherlock was taken aback at the sound, he hadn’t expected her to scream so loud the neighbours would probably think she was being murdered. He knew that John no longer resided in 221B, but he didn’t know if Mrs Hudson had rented out the flat to someone else in their absence. If she had, god knows what they would think was happening.

Sherlock rushed towards Mrs Hudson, ‘Mrs Hudson, calm down. It’s me.’ Sherlock got a pot thrust in the direction of his face for his troubles. ‘Mrs Hudson, please,’ Sherlock pleaded.

Placing his hand on the pot he pushed it down slowly out of his face. Mrs Hudson did not resist the pressure he was putting on the pot, she finally dropped it with a great clatter that rung out around the room. She enveloped Sherlock in a hug, ‘Oh Sherlock, dear, why did you go and do that. We all missed you terribly. And John, the poor man, moped about for months,’ she said, although the sound was muffled in Sherlock’s coat.

With his arms firmly around Mrs Hudson he replied, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson, I had to.’ He unwound his arms and held her by the shoulders so he could look into her face, ‘You have to believe me, if I could have done it differently I would have.’

Mrs Hudson patted his cheek, ‘I know, deary, it’s just you gave us all an awful sad surprise when you jumped. That Detective friend of yours almost lost his job, and John, well he didn’t take it too well at all. But that was to be expected,’ she lamented.

Sherlock let his hands drop from her shoulders as she went to bend down and pick up the pot and dishcloth. As she headed over to the sink he said, ‘I never thought it would affect you all so much.’

‘Oh, Sherlock, of course it did. You know we all loved you so much.’ Sherlock’s heart constricted at what she was saying to him, ‘I’ll make you some tea, dear, you look a bit pale.’

~*~

Mrs Hudson hadn’t rented out 221B, apparently Mycroft had been paying her the rent since he left and gave an open invitation for John to move back in if he wanted to. Everything in the flat had been packed up into boxes and put in Sherlock’s room and all his science equipment had been donated to local schools. The only things left as they were before he went away were the bare minimum, such as the sofa and other basic furnishings. Sherlock had pushed the sofa from the wall, which still held the spray painted smiley face and bullet holes, and now its newest feature was the pictures that Moran had sent to him of John and the addition of the file that Anthea had dropped by on Moran earlier.

Sebastian Moran, 39, born in London, joined the army when he was 18. He worked his way up the ranks to become a Colonel, he was a sniper and got dishonourably discharged seven years ago for murdering civilians.

His phone beeped, breaking the eerie silence that smothered the flat.

**_I fancy a meeting, don’t you? 5pm tomorrow Dabbous, wear a nice suit, won’t you. SM_ **

Sherlock looked back at the wall at the picture that had been in Moran’s file, it showed a man with dark blond, brown hair, he still had a military style cut. He was wearing a thick leather jacket and he was roughly Sherlock’s own height but with a lot more muscle mass, where Sherlock had sinew and flat planes of taught skin, Moran had gym sculpted muscles.

There was no way that Sherlock would be able to stand up in a fight with him, if it came to that. He was going to need to pay Lestrade a visit.

~*~

Hiding in plain sight was one of Sherlock’s skills, he knew that it would be a risk going into New Scotland Yard, most of the Yarders had known him or would have known him to see. He was wearing a sergeant’s uniform with his hair scraped back into the cap.

As he walked in through Scotland Yard he saw some officers and DI’s he recognised, but there was only one person wanted to see.

Eventually he saw the harried figure of Detective Inspector Lestrade walking towards him. His hair was cropped short and his face was lined with more lines since he had seen him last, his shoulders were rigid with stress and he looked absolutely wrecked. It appeared that he’d finally left his wife, a band of pale skin stretched around his left wedding finger now that it was left bereft of the band. As Lestrade got closer Sherlock angled his head away from the DI’s line of sight and deliberately bumped into him. Sherlock mumbled an apology at the same time as Lestrade, striding off before he could turn tp see Sherlock and recognise him.

~*~

Lestrade had his car parked on the second floor of the Scotland Yard car park, Sherlock stood waiting in the shadows for him to appear to go home for the day. He had changed from his disguise back into his usual suit in the gents toilets in the Yard before he snuck back out again and into the car park.

When Lestrade did turn up he walked towards his car, he shoved his hand into his pocket for his keys. When he didn’t find them there he stopped and searched his coat pockets, patting down the outside of his coat. He looked confused and began to search the inside pockets of the coat. Sherlock chose that moment to walk towards the DI, Lestrade turned towards the noise of oncoming footsteps. Each step rung out in the empty concrete car park.

Sherlock held up the keys he had pick pocketed off Lestrade when he’d bumped into him earlier, ‘Looking for something, Lestrade?’ Sherlock asked, his deep baritone ricocheting around the still car park.

He looked back at Sherlock in astonishment and a certain amount of anger, ‘I should arrest you, you know,’ he said matter of factly.

‘But you won’t,’ Sherlock replied in a knowing tone.

‘Why did you do it?’

‘I had to, I don’t want to get into it now, I need you to do something for me.’

Lestrade guffawed, ‘You’re back from the dead... What, five minutes? And you need my help,’ he scoffed.

‘John’s in danger,’ was all he said.

Sherlock could see the walls of his defensiveness give way, Lestrade sighed, ‘What do you need?’

Closing the distance and handing Lestrade his keys, Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

~*~

So far the only person he hadn’t told that he was still alive was John, he wanted to make sure that he was safe before he did. Moran was still a threat and John would surely be livid at Sherlock and all those emotions would get in the way of what he needed to do to protect John.

 The restaurant Moran asked him to meet him in was one of London’s finest, reservations had to be booked months in advance. Moran clearly had some influence around the finer establishments in London, being Moriarty’s second in command had its advantages, apparently.

Dabbous was only a mere ten minutes taxi ride from Baker Street and Sherlock was thrumming with nervous tension the whole way there. When the cab pulled to a stop Sherlock practically shoved the taxi fare at the driver and vaulted out onto the street. Dabbous was a minimalistic looking affair from the exterior, placed on the corner of Scala Street, the building was very monochrome.

Sherlock strode in through the door as if he owned the place. A man dressed in a sharp suit greeted him as he entered, ‘Good evening, Sir. Can I ask what name your reservation is under?’ He was overly polite, like most staff in these types of establishments.

‘Moran, Seabastian Moran,’ Sherlock replied curtly.

The man checked the listings on the screen in front of him, ‘Very good, Sir.’ He waved over a man standing off to the other side of the small entrance hall, ‘Talbot here will be your maître d'hôtel for the evening, as per Mister Moran’s request.’

Glancing over at the man to his left Sherlock hummed in agreement.

‘Shall I take your coat, Sir,’ Talbot asked.

By the sound of his accent he was educated at Eton, had been married for 20 years, had no children and one small tabby cat.

Sherlock slipped his Belstaff off releasing it to the care of Talbot who handed to a young lady that brought it to the cloakroom.

‘This way, Sir.’ Talbot indicated towards the double doors separating them from the warmly lit dining area in front of them. Fixing his Spencer Hart suit jacket, Sherlock walked towards the doors, which were opened as he approached by two waiting staff who both greeted him with a perfunctory, ‘Good evening, Sir.’

Four strides into the main dining area Sherlock stalled, sitting across the restaurant was John. He was with the blonde woman that had been in the photographs Moran had sent him. John was dressed in a well fitted black Austin Reed suit and tie, he still had the awful moustache that added five years to his face, but he looked marginally better than he had in the photographs. When he looked up at the woman his eyes lit up. He was going to propose to her tonight, Sherlock deduced, by the way he was occasionally fiddling with something in his left trouser pocket.

Sherlock didn’t notice until Talbot spoke that all other noises had been drowned out but for the sound of his blood pumping in his ears and his heart hammering erratically against his rib cage.

Snapping himself back to the present he turned immediately and hastily followed Talbot to a table in the far left of the room.

Moran was seated sipping a generous glass of red wine and perusing a menu. As Sherlock approached the table Moran looked up, smiling like a tiger, ‘Have a seat Mr Holmes,’ he said in a gruff Cockney accent.

Sherlock popped open the button on his suit jacket as he sat and Talbot pushed his chair in behind him.

‘What will you have to drink?’ Moran asked.

‘Nothing, I’m fine.’

Moran made a mmmh noise looking back down at the menu in front of him, ‘A bottle of Grand Vin de Château Latour please, Talbot,’ he said as he passed the wine menu over.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Moran as Talbot took away his menu also and said, ‘Very good choice, Sir.’

With just the two of them ensconced in the intimate corner Moran began talking again, ‘Nice place this isn’t it? Johnny Boy thinks so anyways. He’s been trying to reserve a place for months, I may have lent a helping hand.’ A shark like grin spread across his face.

‘What is it you want, Moran?’ Sherlock’s tone was bored.

‘Jim loved this place too you know, yes, he loved it so much he bought it and well with him being dead someone had to take on all his businesses.’

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, ‘You’ve certainly got his style for the dramatic and over excessive grandeur,’ he droned.

 Talbot returned to the table with the bottle of Château Latour in hand, both men fell silent as he corked the bottle and poured a mouthful worth into a new glass for Moran to swirl, smell and taste.

‘Perfect, thank you,’ he said.

Talbot poured both men a glass of the red, divested the bottle and retreated once again. Not once did Sherlock take his eyes off of Moran through this.

‘Fine, if you’re not going to tell me why you brought me here, why have you been having me followed by a moron who couldn’t hide a needle in a haystack,’ his connotation was dripping in distaste.

Swallowing a gulp of the wine Moran shook his finger at Sherlock before saying, ‘Well, Mr Holmes, if you didn’t keep killing my people I wouldn’t have to train new ones from scratch, would I?’

The low hum of the restaurant was but a distant noise as Sherlock focused all of his attention on the man in front of him, but never forgetting about the heat that he felt searing into his back just by knowing John was in the restaurant as well.

‘If I tell you a secret, will you keep it?’ Moran asked leaning forward on the table and mock whispering.

Sherlock gave him the most menacing glare he could muster.

Face and voice full of amusement Moran continued, ‘I’m going to kill you and your friend, just so you don’t have any doubts that I’m not going to finish what Jim started.’

‘I’d like to see you try,’ remarked Sherlock.

‘Oh I am, but do you know how I’m going to do it?’

‘Let me guess, you’re going to shoot us,’ Sherlock stated matter of factly.

Moran’s face lit up with mirth, ‘Obviously, but I’m going to shoot Johnny Boy over there first,’ all amusement that was in his face was whipped clear replaced by a look of pure unadulterated menace, ‘And you’re going to watch the life drain from his body.’

In his chest his heart was palpitating vigorously at Moran’s words.

Before Sherlock could interject Moran raised his hand in the air clicking his fingers twice. Sherlock followed his gaze which was on Talbot who picked up an empty glass and a knife from a vacant table. He clinked the knife against the glass twice. The whole restaurant fell to complete silence and everyone rose from their seats and made their way silently and calmly out the door, Talbot followed them out.

Sherlock, Moran, John and John’s date were the only ones left in the restaurant.

John had a forkful of something halfway to his mouth and was looking at the door in confusion until Moran stood from his seat and projected his voice unnecessarily loud around the room, ‘Well, isn’t this just cosy. John, say welcome back to Sherlock, I know how you’ve missed him so.’ John dropped the fork onto his plate and was staring with shock and confusion over at the two men.

Sherlock stood and turned to John, ‘John, I can explain,’ was all he got to say before Moran screamed, ‘SHUT UP.’ Apparently he had picked up Moriarty’s love for unnecessary shouting as well as his flair for the dramatic.

Moran pulled a Sig from behind his back, presumably it had been tucked into his waistband, and pointed it straight at Sherlock’s head. John was rushing to get up when a man re-entered with a gun of his own in hand.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you, Dr Watson,’ Moran exclaimed as the man walked over to John’s date and pointed the gun at her head.

Not once did the blonde scream or start panicking like most women would have in this situation. John had done well for himself in Sherlock’s absence.

‘So, _Doctor_ ,’ he said the word like it was a slur, ‘how are we feeling about all of this,’ Moran asked whilst indicating towards Sherlock with a nod of his gun.

John worked his jaw before he said, ‘I’d very much appreciate if you would get your friend here to stop pointing a gun at my girlfriend.’

Moran guffawed as if it was sheer ridiculousness that John would even think to ask such a thing, ‘How about, no.’

John tore his gaze away from Moran and Sherlock looking down at Mary, giving her a look that asked hundreds of questions at once, but most importantly ‘are you okay?’, Sherlock saw her nod her head minutely.

‘Well, I think that reaction pretty much answers my next question.’

‘And what question would that be?’ John gritted out, his eyes reluctantly rising back up Moran.

‘Oh, I was just going to ask you which one would you save, before I kill you of course.’

The woman still quietly seated grabbed her fork from the table and plunged it into Moran’s man’s leg, he let out a roar of pain, ‘YOU STUPID FUCKING SLUT!’ He yanked the fork out of his leg and went to bring the butt of the gun down on her skull, but John was up and around the table and grabbing the man’s wrist before he could.

Sherlock used the momentary distraction to elbow the gun out of Moran’s hand. A gunshot rang out in the restaurant as the scuffle between Sherlock and Moran continued. Sherlock momentarily looked over his shoulder thinking that John had been shot.

John was still struggling to get the gun out of the man’s hands the shot had hit the roof rather than anyone.

Moran grabbed Sherlock wheeling him around and slamming him into a table, cutlery and glasses flew to the floor with a crash. He grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s suit and thumped him down against the table twice more for good measure. Sherlock closed his eyes against the punch that he knew was coming. It never came, instead the sound of a plate smashing came from above Sherlock. His eyes flew open to see John’s date holding the remnants of a porcelain white plate.

Out of the peripheral of Sherlock’s vision he saw the doors of the restaurant fling open.

‘Step away from him,’ Lestrade’s voice boomed across the room. When Moran didn’t move instantly Lestrade snarled, ‘Now, or I will shoot you.’

Moran shoved his hands into Sherlock’s chest one last time before raising his hands in the air and turning towards the detective inspector. A sergeant rushed over and cuffed Moran as well as his compatriot who John had pinned up against the wall. Gun nowhere in sight.

Sherlock stood up fixing himself and breathless from Moran’s parting shove to his chest turned to the blonde woman, ‘Thank you.’ He turned back to Lestrade, ‘You’re late, what took you so long. We could have all been killed.’

‘Sherlock, we had to disarm the crowd that came out of here like a bloody mass exodus,’ Lestrade complained.

John had gone over to his date and wrapped her now shivering form in his dinner jacket and rubbing his hands up and down her arms.

~*~

Lestrade’s sergeants had dragged Moran and his man out of the building and shoved them in the Police cars that lined the street outside while Lestrade herded John and his date over to the ambulance on standby. John watched on as the paramedic draped an orange shock blanket over her shoulders. Sherlock watched from the door of Dabbous with an empty feeling inside. John hadn’t so much as said a word to him or even looked directly at him so far. Granted things were a bit hectic when they were inside. It still did nothing to quell the feeling of disappointment that spread through his body.

After a few more minutes of the paramedic checking the blonde woman over John squeezed her arm and said something to her, she nodded at him and he started walking over towards Sherlock, eyes trained on the ground.

John stopped a few feet in front of Sherlock, clearly trying to calm himself, his right hand was clenching and unclenching at his side like it did when he was trying to get his anger under control.

‘John-‘ Sherlock began but was stopped by John holding his hand up in a stop motion.

Sherlock took a moment before trying again, ‘John, I know you’re angry with me-‘ John cut him off again but this time it was with a snarled, ‘Angry? Sherlock, I’m not angry. I’m fucking furious. You were dead. I saw you fall. I carried your coffin through the church. I buried you,’ the repressed anger was bubbling to the surface.

‘And then you turn up again like this. On the night I was going to propose to Mary. I was finally getting on with my life and then you turn up and everything goes to shite.’ Finally John looked up at him for the first time in two years. The vicious fury that was emanating from John’s eyes should have been warning enough for Sherlock to stop talking then and there.

Unfortunately for him he didn’t process the signs properly and barrelled on with his thoughts on the matter, ‘It’s hardly my fault you chose tonight to propose to-‘ John punched him square in the mouth before he could finish his sentence. Sherlock’s head snapped back at the force of the hit and before he could properly right himself another punch caught him on the jaw. This time he went sprawling to the ground in a heap. John launched on top of him and started hitting him over and over again. His jaw and head were screaming at the pain that was blooming from the sight of the hits. All he could focus on was each hit that John landed on him.

Lestrade was dragging John off him before any more damage could be done to Sherlock’s face. He didn’t register anything else that was happening, he just lay on the ground for a few minutes not bothering to get up. A face appeared in his blurred vision, she was asking him something but he didn’t hear it he didn’t hear anything. He slowly began to sit up when he got used to the throbbing pain, Mary was crouched down in front of him asking him if he was okay. When he didn’t reply she held out her hand to pull him up.

~*~

Sherlock was sat in the back of the ambulance with an ice pack on his lip, which had taken the worst of the punches, where Mary had been before John had attacked him. She was now standing a few meters away having strong words with John.

Mary pointed towards Sherlock and John began to protest but with one firm look he gave in and started walking towards the ambulance. Before Sherlock could even think about saying anything John launched into his sentence, ‘Sherlock, don’t even think about saying anything yet. I’m not going to apologise for punching you, you deserved that. I will apologise for not stopping though, I’m sorry. But you have a lot of explaining to do.’ Sherlock took John’s pause as an invitation to speak, but as he went to John stopped him, ‘Not tonight though. Frankly I think I’ve had enough drama for one night.’

Sherlock looked up at John and nodded in agreement, ‘Not tonight,’ he repeated in his deep baritone.

John went to turn around to leave, faltering in his step he looked back at Sherlock, ‘I’m glad you’re not dead,’ John admitted with a nod of his head before walking over to Mary who took his hand and walked with him to the edge of the crime scene and under the tape.

‘Well that went better than I expected,’ Lestrade said cheerily.

Sherlock scowled at him, turning the ice pack over to get the colder side on his mouth.

‘Well if he didn’t punch you, I was going to punch you for him. You deserved it,’ he looked down at Sherlock’s bruised face, ‘Okay, maybe you didn’t deserve to be punched that much. But you did deserve the first three,’ he finished.

‘I know I deserved it,’ Sherlock acknowledged watching John and Mary’s retreating figures in the distance.

‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift back to Baker Street. No cab’s going to pick you up looking like that.’ Lestrade indicated to his face that had livid purple bruises covering the skin.

Lestrade walked towards one of the parked police cars, Sherlock stood up stiffly and followed him. Home was where he wanted to be right now. It was going to difficult going back to the empty flat without John but at least they were on somewhat speaking terms. It’s the best he could hope for at this stage. Both men got into the car and took off towards Baker Street with the lights of London flickering past in the pitch black night.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may notice that the restaurant scene seemed familiar. Yes I may have heavily borrowed from the scene in A Game of Shadows, http://youtu.be/qgMPOwt9S-A. Thanks for reading everyone.


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